All this time Mary, her niece, with true patrician unconcern, stood knitting and talking to Miss Usher, precisely as if she were receiving her amidst the most luxurious surroundings, and absolutely unconscious of any shortcomings. If she had been a true-born Irishwoman she would have been pouring forth an irrepressible torrent of excellent and plausible excuses. And here, to Mr. Usher, was yet another incontrovertible proof that in Mary’s veins ran no Foley blood, but that she was the descendant of a colder race, the daughter of a hundred earls. Whilst Miss Usher made use of her tongue, her brother continued to make use of his eyes. The young woman, leaning against the dresser, with the dog at her feet, was plainly not in keeping with her background; her pose was grace itself, unconscious and unstudied--possibly the heritage of centuries of court life. The short blue cotton skirt revealed a pair of black woollen stockings and cobbler’s shoes; but even these failed to conceal a high-arched instep and slim little feet, and the hands that twinkled among the flying knitting needles might have been painted by Vandyck or Lely, so delicate, taper, and absolutely useless did they look. Mary Foley had a sweet voice and a pleasant and melodious brogue; she and her visitor had much to say to one another on the subject of books, and the English lady was secretly amazed at the extent and variety of the Irish girl’s reading. “Father Daly lends me the _Times Weekly_, and Mrs. Hogan at the hotel gives me all the stray old books and magazines, and I keep her in stockings; then I buy books myself in Cork.” “You don’t get much of a selection do you?” “Oh, ma’am, sixpenny reprints is not too bad--I wish I knew French!” “I suppose you only know your language?” put in Mr. Usher. “The Irish, sir? Yes, I can speak that well, and read it too, they teach it in the schools now, but it is not much use if one went travelling--not like French.” “Do you wish to travel?” “Sometimes I do. I get a queer roving feeling,--a sort of longing comes over me; but mostly I am very well content here, and I’ve a notion that if I ever left this part of the world it would be like tearing the heart out of me, same as you see the poor people going to America.” “Well, Mary, me girl, aren’t you going to ask the lady if she has a mouth on her?” put in the shrill, whining voice of Mrs. Grogan, who had been busy with a kettle and some cups and saucers. The hot soda cake, retrieved from the cinders, sent forth an appetising invitation. Mrs. Grogan had cut it into large chunks, which she split and buttered with a generous hand. “Emily, I really think we ought to be going,” protested Mr. Usher, who hated and despised afternoon tea, and would as soon partake of rhinoceros as hot buttered soda cake!